


Bullet

by amelie_drinking_tea



Series: Bullet series [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Humor, M/M, Modern Era, Sexual Confusion, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amelie_drinking_tea/pseuds/amelie_drinking_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. Merlin's POV.</p><p>Merlin is having an existential crisis. And a sexual identity crisis. And a coming of age crisis. All at the same time. There's no controlling a bullet going through your fucking scalp, is there?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It's fucked up. Simple as that. You know how people say you have to live with the choices you make? Well, those people can kiss my pale white ass. What if you're not the one calling the shots? What if there's just nothing you can do, or even worse, what if the alternative sounds way too risky for you to move?

I was led to it. To believing anything good could come from all this nonsense. First there were those ridiculous messages. Inside jokes. Fuck. One could lose their mind over inside jokes. You know what they mean, right? They mean someone knows you so fucking well they can make you laugh at any stupid comment. That's one dangerous game.

I loved playing it.

Then came these sorts of loving messages. Of course, I pretended they meant nothing. It's all casual texting. What harm could come from telling someone you need them, better yet, you want them around? Picture a complete idiot smiling at his cell phone. Pathetic. Picture some dork who knows what he's doing and does it anyway. Set the jerk on fire.

Let me tell you about the time I almost did it. Not set myself on fire, though you could say that, if you're feeling philosophical enough. Yes, let's share the embarrassing series of events which constitutes my love life.

We were talking in bed, as we used to when he slept over at my house in high school. We often shared the same bed. No biggie. It's not like we're homophobic pricks or anything. More like heterossexual nutcases, I'd say. But I digress. Damned if I know what we were babbling about. He was almost asleep, mumbling on, as oblivious as a fly heading straight for the spider's web. No, I'm not the spider. I fucking wish I were the spider. I'm more like a dumb lizzard or something. Anyway, I felt like I could do it, you know. I could lean over and kiss him. For a micro-second there I thought that maybe he'd like that. My heart was pounding, my mind was racing and all that, so I advertised some courage to myself. I'm a great audience for my insanities when I want to. Just do it. I was almost buying it.

I opened my mouth, I moved. I swear to God I moved towards him. And moving is always hard. Then he said something about feeling really sleepy and apologized in advance for snoring like a pig. Fucker. He broke the fucking magic of that precious little moment of boldness I was having. I turned my back to him and swallowed it. It tasted like failure must taste like.

The next day, he told me about her. Guinevere. I sensed some change in the weather. I was used to it, though. That cool feeling right before the fall, you know? You always feel you can handle it, it's just a cool breeze, a small change in the color of the leaves. You never think of it as the flu season, right?

More inside jokes. There's just no controlling them.

There was this one time he made a comment about his job at a party we were at, it wasn't even that funny. Right. I thought it was marvelous. I thought it was just the kind of thing I wish I had said. You wit motherfucker. How can I let you go?

Then there was her trying to be friends with me. A motivational poster, that's what I needed. "He loves her. He's got somebody to love. Be satisfied." Don't be rude, that's just so out of style. But I was fucking cold by that time. Coughing all over him, in desperate need of a cough syrup of any kind. Weather was changing fast.

Let's not forget about that time when I told him I could see myself growing up by his side. Becoming an adult. Evolving. Yep, I said that. Then lasers shot from my eyes. No, seriously, I told him. I wanted a relationship of some kind. He told me we had one. Nice. Not quite thrilling, though. We’d take forever to grow out of ourselves after that one.

The kind of friendship we had was like a fire drill. It's nice to have a little safety net to fall back on, isn't it? Even weirdos need safety. Oh man... just set this fool on fire.  
Messages coming and going, like I needed a reminder. I'm telling myself it's the last time, but I need another fix. It's like I've got this drug dealer who got me hooked and now he gives me less and less each time I ask for it, and the stuff used to be top quality, and now it's this cheap joint he knows I'll be coming for. I'd come for anything he threw at me.

That's what it feels like, I guess. I don't know. I've never used illegal drugs, not once in my life. I'm all for legal drugs, though. Can you face life completely clean?  
Good for you.

When he moved in with her, fuck, that was harsh. Although there were still leaves on the trees, fall was almost done. I'll never be done. Still feeling the side effects of too much cough syrup, I guess. I could overdose it and never be done. I'd probably try to enjoy it somehow.

Because, you know, it feels good. It's not the addict in me talking, I swear. Ok, I won’t swear on it. But you can take my word when I say it's worth the rush of feeling loved, remembered, wanted, and all that crap. Being human, you know. In need of love, in need of affirmation. Declare it true, and I'll follow.

So I text him back. 

There's no controlling a bullet going through your fucking scalp, is there? 

And then, oh yeah, I was almost forgetting, there was that time he said everything would still be the same. Inside jokes don't change. Sharing. Caring. Getting your fix. Nice. That's just great. Give me all you got. Except that you never do. And never will.

 


	2. Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground

I fucking hate the Fall. Autumn, I mean. The fall is something I actually enjoy. The falling, I mean. You have all that stuff you gotta do and brown leaves just keep hanging outside your window. Depressing. I kind of appreciate that. I hate Autumn, though. It feels as if you’re supposed to have your shit together by Autumn. Never happens.

I had been working on my master’s dissertation for some time, talking to my fucking cat all the way through it, when it hit me. I’m a fucking adult, with fucking bills to pay. When the hell did that happen? I started teaching when I was, what, seventeen? Let me tell you why the biggest geeks become teachers on such a tender age. They’re masochists, I mean, big ones. It’s like facing those jerks from high school all over again, difference is, now you have to grade their bullshit.

I absolutely despise grading tests. I define it as an infinite series of idiotic sentences to be translated by people who don’t give a flying fuck about personal growth. Oh yeah, I teach French, forgot to mention that, I wonder why. As if you haven’t formed an opinion about me by now. I’m a creep who hides it extremely well. One of my many gifts.

Classes to prepare, that’s when I missed texting him the most. Talk about modern times, huh? You wake up every morning, waiting for something to happen. One ring and “just saw the stupidest slasher on tv you gotta see this crap its brilliant”. I’m lonely as fuck. And that just made my day. It’s not like I don’t have stuff going on, it’s just that it’s going in the speed of light. It’s making me blind with boredom. I text him back.

I don’t even like him sometimes, you know. He seems to be like everyone else, enjoying the little things in life, smiling idiotically, making silly comments, being everything I wanted to be. Yeah, I said it.

I think I haven’t talked about that time we first met, have I? He was the first person to actually talk to me. How awful is that? You can’t do that to people, you know, you can’t just become their personal hero like that. I hate heroes. They make you dependent. Especially when you’re the new kid. And yes, of course, I was often the new kid since my father split. Always the new kid. And his talking to me when the others couldn’t care less made me about to explode with relief.

I’m not a big fan of nostalgia. I’m a huge fan of exploding with relief, though. And yes, I treasured his friendship, still do. Back then, his friendship was more than enough. Changes in weather didn’t affect me as much. He could fucking snow on me and I would gladly soak wet. It was mostly all about me, anyway. Feeling great about myself because he enjoyed spending so much time with this kid he’d just met.

And I haven’t even tried that hard, you know. It’s not like I had this deep dark desire of being wanted. Ok, I did. Ok, so sue me. Who doesn’t? But it wasn’t like I had placed all my focus on him. It could have been anybody, really. Junior year, and he was my first real friend. Friendless geek, yeah, guilty. I did have plenty of mates, but I could go through a fucking year without missing them. He started talking about horror movies like it was the most interesting thing. It felt right.

You know that talk about feeling alone in a room full of people? Bullshit. The sun could be shining right out of your ass, and people would be like “hey, you’re so cool, I wanna be your friend, let’s go out, let’s chat, let’s say shit about people behind their back”. You’d still feel alone because you want to feel alone. Yeah, it’s comforting, tell me about it; and don’t even try to land the self-destructive speech on me. It’s just you trying to feel that sparkle, that touch of magic.

Insert self-help ad here.

He was never like that. Fuck. He doesn’t need it.

I could be magic itself, and he still wouldn’t need it. Yet he’s around, texting me, reminding me I don’t want to be alone, despite of wanting to be alone.

I’m not a total asshole, I swear. I’m rather pleasant, actually. I can switch to “normal” anytime. Sure, it could be the addict in me talking. Weird how some people manage to suck it up like pros, isn’t it? It’s a real fucking gift. I’m pretty good at it myself, if I may say so. The passive-aggressive type, that’s me. Aren’t you in utter and complete shock right now?

Let me tell about that time when he came up to me and started talking about this girl he had met. She wasn’t just some girl, mind you. She was great (still is) and I’m very fond of her to this day. Elena. This isn’t about her. If I had to describe her, though, oh well… I wouldn’t know where to begin. I suck at describing. No, seriously. I couldn’t describe to save my life. Ask me to analyze my inner fears, and I’d write you a fucking thesis. Ask me to describe the inside of a room and I could pass for a third-grader with learning disabilities. Anyway. She didn’t like horror movies and that piece of information tingled right inside me. “Ok, you can chill. She isn’t perfect, he’s not replacing you.”

She was sweet and comforting, though. And hilarious. Hey, sometimes I wish I had her by my side! Except that I don’t, really. I wanted something else. Fuck me if I know what that would be. I’m in my mid-twenties, you think I know what I’m fucking doing? Do I honestly need to tell you nothing gets easier after high school? And I became a teacher, for fuck’s sake!

You never really know. Or maybe it’s just me. I wish, right? But yeah, whatever it is that I want, he’s always there. I want him wrapped in it, the bastard. So when he came to me and told me about her, I was smiling the whole time. I told you I’m pleasant. I’m polite as fuck. Then I wouldn’t talk to him for three weeks. Couldn’t hear the sound of his voice, without wanting to shout at his face. What would I shout at him? That’s an excellent question.


	3. Butterflies and Hurricanes

Maybe I should talk about some of my adventures in college. You know how people say you don’t have to live up to the expectations of others, because it’s your life after all? Well, those people must get laid a lot. The rest of us, well, we kinda have to live up to it, since that’s all we’ve got to offer. I remember always trying my best in college, being the obnoxious little twat who questioned every professor, just for the sake of argument, the jackass who had an opinion about every fucking subject. I used to get a real rush from that.

Arthur told me once, much to my disdain, that that was me trying to impress my father, that in some twisted sorta Freudian way, that was my way of saying “Take that, dickhead! I’m in college now, and I’m having the time of my life! I don’t fucking need you or your support, asshole! Mama raised a fucking genius all by herself!”

Arthur could get really deep sometimes.

I don’t know, maybe he was right. I never thought of myself actually trying to impress people, though, and I barely thought of my father, except for when my mother casually mentioned him over dinner. But there wasn’t much more to it than maybe a couple of ruined meals. I guess I was more like trying to impress myself so I could bear my own company. Geeks are the bitterest people you’ll encounter, take my word for it. But yeah… he wasn’t like that. I seriously believed he was the most intelligent person in class back in high school, but he never bothered showing it off. He was like “oh ok, yeah, guess you’re right” even when people said the stupidest things to him. He just didn’t care. I fucking adored that.

I remember this one time in college, some kids were making fun of my never-ending questioning on an Oscar Wilde short story. Our professor was rolling her eyes, as if she wasn’t getting a paycheck decent enough to put up with that. As a teacher myself, I might add she probably wasn’t. But I swear to God I was really into it, that had nothing to do with my absent father whatsoever. Anyway, they kept whispering and giggling at each other on how I must’ve never had a date in my life, and I simply interrupted what I was saying to declare I’d rather have an evening with Oscar Wilde, hands down, than go on a date with any of them.

Needless to say, I didn’t make many friends in college.

That same night, I texted Arthur. The son of a bitch laughed his ass off, but he didn’t make any remarks about me being a snob and all, because he knew me way too well for that, he knew I was just an insecure sap with intimacy issues. Oh well. He asked me over to his place and I clearly remember it to be snowing, not Xmas snow, all pretty and shit, but that ugly dirty snow which could destroy even the purest of childhood wishes.

I can’t actually say my wishes were ever much pure, you know.

When I got to his place, he said I needed a beer. I told him that was about the last thing I needed, since the slightest bit of alcohol used to give me fucking migraines back then. My sinusitis crises are much less recurring these days, in case you’re feeling concerned. At that moment he was living in this shitty flat, full of leaks and mold, mostly because he refused to move to a more decent place if that meant he had to share it with another person. He had told me he simply refused to become the “college flatmate cliché”, whatever the fuck that means. I don’t know, I was just mesmerized with the fact that he’d used the word “cliché” to inquire about anything else.

He replied I was a lost case and that a beer was not going to kill me. He was right about that. I might be killed by smaller things, though. Like his fucking lack of personal space awareness, for example. Which was kinda ironic, since he was such a dick when it came to sharing stuff. Maybe the fact that he was right then totally on my face meant I was different, that he didn’t mind being that close to me. Ok, that’s it, I’m going with that.

He offered me a can and said he knew I was probably feeling some sort of pleasure from what had happened. I could never pull off the kicked puppy look, you know. He knew I cherished that sense of superiority you get when you know your bullies are just that trivial. But of course, only he could read me like that. Fucking bastard. Those were the times when not getting to kiss him was actually physically painful.

Then he told me about the classes he was taking, like I’d fucking come if I heard the way his philosophy professor discussed Eli Perkins’ theories on humor, and how much I’d love this book he was assigned to write a report on. I drank the damn beer in one long gulp. Academic talk makes me way hotter than I could ever admit, that’s all I’ve got to say.

Then we watched a horror film he’d just gotten at a flea market, this 1964 Brazilian horror flick called “At midnight I’ll take your soul”. There were actual tears of joy on the corner of his eyes as he went on and on about how rare and awesome that film was. How am I supposed to cope with that, huh? He does it and has no idea he’s doing it. Am I supposed to tell him? “Stop it, you’re giving me a huge geek boner here!”

Seriously, Arthur, you want my soul? Take it, man.

It’s a fucking waste of energy, isn’t it? Doing this to yourself, I mean. If I decided to actually go see a psychologist, they would probably point me in the direction of self-loving and self-preserving. Get away from any nerve-racking situation, such as having movie nights with your best friend. That could never float my boat. The self-preserving thing, I mean. I’m a teacher by choice, remember? I fucking teach teenagers by choice! If that doesn’t scream “masochist”, I don’t know what does.

At least you learn how to keep your cool.

I’m pretty sure I just swore like two or three times while teaching. How about that for fucking self-control? It must be magic. But yeah, back to the professional opinion consultation realm of possibilities. I don’t think they could help me. Wait. Asking for help is a step for something, isn’t it? Isn’t that the Alcoholics Anonymous motto?

Just before leaving, just because I had to leave at some point, I leaned against the door and thanked him. He said it was all the beer. I had only had one. He smirked. Than he touched me just above my hips, squeezed a little and said it was because I was fucking skinny and had had it with an empty stomach. It potentiates the whole experience, you know.

Oh yeah, I just remembered now, admitting you have a problem is the Alcoholics Anonymous rule of thumb. Good thing I don’t drink, then.


	4. What you meant

I was four years old the last time I saw my father. I can’t remember his face or his voice or anything about him. So how could I miss him, right? I don’t. I know what missing someone feels like. This isn’t it. But from time to time I can’t help but wonder if my inability to trust people comes from his bailing on us without as much as a reason to do it.

My mother never actually explained to me what happened. I never asked. Twenty-two fucking years have passed since he left and I never asked. Not once. What’s the point, really? At least it gives me an excuse to be addicted to the misery. As if I needed an excuse. Becoming a misery addict is about the best thing that can happen to you, you know. You wouldn’t believe how awesome it feels to hate yourself sometimes. It’s good replacement for masturbation too. Self-pity, I mean. Not that I’d fully replace it, you can have both, no problem. No need for getting all extreme about it.

Arthur’s father is a real fucker. First time I saw them together, I felt a tiny bit envious of their relationship. That lasted for a good whole ten minutes. Then I saw how he treated him when he thought no one was looking. I swear to God sometimes I wish I were a little less on the bitter insightful side, and a little more on the heroic side so I could defend him against all the shit he’s got to face by himself. His mom died giving birth to him, and he’ll never admit it, but I think he feels guilty about it. Powerless, somehow, playing it on repeat. He’s still trying to save her in every girl he meets. I get it.

Have I told you about the time I took these painkillers and slept for a whole day? Had this weird dream in which I was some sort of warlock and there were dragons and shit. Arthur was in it, obviously. He had been wounded. I remember standing by a lake, trying to bring him back to life with my magical powers.

They were just painkillers, I swear! But yeah, God knows what kind of substances we ingest every day without a clue as to the actual effects of it on our minds. I might have taken a few more than I needed, ok, but I was in chronicle pain, you can’t judge me. Winter always enhances my allergies and well, I’m all better now. Really.

I stopped playing self-loathing on repeat, and that’s something, right?

Thing is, I remember doing my best to bring him back, but it just wouldn’t work. It often feels like that with Arthur. I often feel like I’m losing him. Fuck. Maybe it’s just me being me. I mean, no one likes to be kept hanging on, right?

Once when I was sixteen, someone called me “Dumbo” in class and I thought about killing myself. Aren’t I a fucking special snowflake? As if no other teenager in history ever felt like offing themselves over something that insignificant. I wish I could say that ten years later, I became the mother-fucking emperor of self-confidence.

Is it too late for getting into happy pills?

You know what they say, you’re never too old to look for happiness.

But seriously, who the hell are they? Who are these invisible people dictating how we should live and love? What if I don’t want to seek this so called happiness? What if I enjoy a different kind of pleasure? What if small crumbles of attention is all I need right now?

Just leave me alone, you omniscient self-help fuckers!

To that, Arthur would simply say “Let it go, man”. But then again, he rarely lets me in. I remember the only time I’ve seen him cry. It was Xmas Eve. He had had this gruesome fight with his dad over his college applications. He completely dreaded the idea of taking over the family business. Being stuck in an office was the same as death to him.

And yeah, there was this other stuff too.

When he came over to my mom’s house that night, I swear… it felt like a damn grunge song. Arthur was my safety net, always, and seeing him at his lowest was the loneliest I’ve ever felt. I know what you’re thinking. I’m making this about myself. Well, duh! If you can’t handle it, I guess you picked the wrong material for your light night reading.

But let me give you some non-expert enlightenment on love, since I don’t have anything better to do right now. It’s always about yourself. What you feel is who you are. Fuck who says love is selfless. It was like a part of me was shriveling and slowly dying as he cried. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know shit about feelings. That’s just how they work with me.

I couldn’t stop myself from demanding he’d stop crying. You know like when you’re little, you just say whatever comes to mind, and damn the consequences? Little kids won’t bottle up their emotions; won’t accept their pain quietly. That’s about the only thing I admire about them. Teacher, yeah, yeah… We’re people too, you know.

He was sitting on my bed, face buried on his hands, trying to swallow up the tears like the kind of hero he thought he ought to be every time. I stood in front of him, clueless. Then I grabbed a big chunk of blond hair from the top of his head and pulled it up so he would face me.

“Stop that right this instant.”

He looked up at me in utter shock. Bloodshot eyes. You know when people say corny shit like “I could drown in the depth of those eyes?” Hell was sucking him in and I was most certainly not going down again, nor letting him do it.

“What? I’m not allowed to blame it on my parents, like everyone else?” He asked, half-smiling somberly, rubbing the place where I had pulled his hair. He sounded so fucking heartbroken. Burning through his suffering.

“You’re blaming yourself. Stop it.”

Arthur used to give me these looks when I started self-medicating more frequently. I had severe migraine crisis back then, it’s not like I was craving for it. He never judged me about it, though. I remember this one time I was really groggy and he just asked me if I needed a pillow or something. Back when I worked three shifts teaching spoiled brats at this fancy private school. Talk about fun.

Once, after a particularly awful day, he asked me if I needed anything from him and I said I wanted to take a nap on his lap. That would make everything better. That would fucking heal my soul. One of those things I say without thinking through, you know. Shit. He must have thought I was on a thousand pills because he just laughed and petted my hair. I had just taken an aspirin that day.

So yeah, seeing him hurt, knowing he wasn’t gonna ask me for a pillow, for a shoulder to cry on, or whatever it is that most people do for comfort, I said the only thing I could think of.

“If you wanna cry, go ahead and cry me a fucking river, but do it for the right reasons. I don’t wanna see you waste it on him. You don’t need it. You’re all kinds of awesome.”

Zero social skills towards the ones I love the most, I’m aware of that, thank you.

He kept looking at me, completely puzzled by my straight forwardness. I wanted to hold him, sure, but I couldn’t. Let’s just say that’s not how I roll. We’re in need of very different things, he and I.

“You’re so fucking weird, Merlin” he shook his head, tears rolling down his cheek. “I could kiss you, you know.”


	5. Do I wanna know?

You know how people say they always think of calling when they’ve had a few? I’d never call. Firstly, because I don’t drink, but most importantly, because I’m really scared of phones. Seriously, it took me seventeen years to get a mobile. I see people talking on their phones on the way to the market and I find it astounding. What on Earth could they be talking about? How come they don’t stutter all the way through their greetings and goodbyes? There’s a real person on the other side of the line expecting you to be clear and objective, can’t they see how fucking terrifying that is?

No, I don’t have a modern technology phobia thing going on. For real, I’m all for technology connecting people and shit. God bless the internet, the wi-fi and the porn. Call me if you need a poster boy for night blogging.

Problem is, I love words, and I hate seeing them wasted on bad conversational patterns. Hence my love for texting. Even before I got a phone, I preferred writing notes to people instead of talking to them. I enjoy shaping sentences and analyzing them, and playing with them, but I could never actually say the stuff I write. Not without getting committed, anyway.

Except for when I was with Arthur. He’d go along knowing it made me so damn happy to be crazy out loud. I do miss that a lot. But even around him, I couldn’t bring myself to spit everything out. Not that I had to, of course not, I just really wanted to see how he’d react in face of my mental disorders. Guess I just wasn’t able to move my mouth in the same frequency as my brain most of the time.

As a matter of fact, I’m still trying to perfect that.  

The adventures of the emotionally unstable in Skittishland.

Now that’d result in one of the most disturbing bedtime stories ever. You have no idea that you’re in deep till you’re writing away your sins in hope that that special someone will read it and get it, so you won’t have to say the words. Did I actually just use the expression “that special someone”? Screw this. I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying. What am I hoping for? The work of magic?

To add insult to injury, right when I was beginning to feel a slight, really slight, the slightest of all slight chances of taking our friendship to the next level, he moved in with her. It felt like a punch in the stomach, as all undigested feelings do, and I was light-headed for a moment, my levels of passive-aggression going wild. “This isn’t happening”.

He’ll keep me hanging, and I’ll think I’m happy, till he does something like that to remind me it’s not about me after all. But yeah, I didn’t honestly think he was going through with that. He seemed sort of worried when he told me about it, trying way too hard to sound casual. Not unsure about what he was doing, I’m aware of that now as I was then, but genuinely scared of how I might react.

Funny how I thought I was the one to be careful not to scare him away. Every.single.time.

He should’ve known better. I mean, come on, as if I were going to snap at him in the face of imminent doom. I smiled and said “oh, ok” and that was fucking it. I’m so predictable sometimes I want to beat myself up. What I wish I had said, though, was “If you wouldn’t mind, I would like to spend the rest of the evening holding a pillow and singing along to romantic power ballads from the 90s.”

I wasn’t physically capable of congratulating him right then, and I still feel kind of bad about it. Kind of. I mean, I almost felt sorry for the guy. I could have made the whole thing much more enjoyable for him if I had acted like a real friend instead of being such a jerk, sulking, pouting and giving him the silent treatment for a while, feeling betrayed beyond reason. Come to think about it, I don’t recall actually pouting (ok, maybe I do, but I’m sticking to my side of the story). I’m pretty sure he knew I was feeling like shit. Moving in together is a big step. Adulthood, you know.

How could he leave me behind?

Just for the record, she’s great, you know. Gwen, I mean. Reserved in a sort of attractive way. Painfully smart. True-hearted. Safe. It’s alright. It’s not like I expected anything less. Everything about her is so easy to love, it would be wrong not to, it would be virtually illegal, really.

I so wish Arthur would break the law just that once. For me. Do the bad thing.

It wasn’t gonna happen, I’ve known it forever, but I’m a fucking delusional basket case, in case you haven’t noticed. So I ached, and ached and then ached some more till all was fine.

Back to texting.

Have I told you about that one time I let a guy feel me up at a sci-fi convention? Of course I’d never do anything like that unless I was heavily medicated, but I got completely high on jealousy that day. Arthur had sent me a message saying he wasn’t gonna be able to meet me there, because he had to solve some stuff concerning his new apartment, plus Guinevere’s dad was coming to visit.

I do beg you not to mistake me for one of those assholes who blame Yoko for the Beatles break-up. I dread those twats. But you have to understand, I’m not a rock star, I’m not made of steel and emotions are irrational.

I had met this really cool guy at the Doctor Who stand, his name was Gwaine, and we had been talking for a while, mostly about our passion of corny tv shows. He wasn’t the sort of guy you expect to see at a sci-fi convention, but then again, neither was Arthur. I was actually enjoying having someone else to share my dorkiness with for a change, and this guy kept staring at me in a way it’d take me light-years to grasp as lustful. I wouldn’t be entirely sure about that till this day if it wasn’t for what followed. Arthur sent me the message. The moment of realization is always a bitch. It wasn’t getting easier. It hurt like hell as I stood there, holding a miniature “tardis” in one hand, feeling like a total creep, thinking about how messed up it was to insist there wasn’t already someone else by his side.

Next thing I know, this guy is touching me everywhere, laughing in my ear. Breathing on my neck. Doing all these awesome things I don’t get to feel that often. Or ever. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying it. Of course I enjoyed it, if felt great. It just didn’t feel right. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to.

I’m so emotionally retarded that I don’t even know what to make of it. It was fun and I forgot about Arthur for a while, about my own inadequacy. We exchanged e-mails and kept in touch as much as comfortably possible. He’d send me jokes and tell me about dreams he’d had. I’ll never forget about this one dream in which he told me he was eating a cheese that tasted of apple pie. I laughed for twenty minutes straight. Gwaine really is an interesting guy and I’m glad I met him, I’m glad he felt me up, and I hope he finds someone less shaky to hang out with during cons. He surely deserves it. Unless he actually wants to just hang out and nothing else, then I’d love to get a call from him.

Am I self-destructive? Demented? Unbalanced in a transcendental level?

How come every time I think about it, it looks more and more bittersweet?


	6. Stripped

On rainy days like this, I often feel like returning to old habits. Sometimes I do slip into a suffocating maze and nothing in the world can pull me back. It’s not that frequent anymore, but it happens. Weather tricks. Raindrops falling on my head.

When I turned twenty-one I thought I was going insane. Not that cute kind of insane regular people usually tag themselves with to escape from boredom; from their obvious lives. Not that “living the moment” kind of insane either. Most definitely not an Instagram kind of insane.

Am I being a prick again? Seriously, I have absolutely nothing against taking pictures of your pain and putting it out there. But I get those who don’t seek that type of consolation. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever felt. Mother could barely take care of herself back then, going through a dark phase of what I’d never admit to be depression. I admit to it now. I admit to a lot of things I wouldn’t five years ago. To being insecure, to being mean, to being envious, to being manipulative from time to time, to being untouched. It doesn’t even hurt that much when you try not to think about it.

I’m a pretty cheerful person nowadays. I’m even listening to Prince right now and singing along. Keen on multitasking, you see.

Once I told Arthur things were pretty complicated back home and I might have to drop off college and return to Ealdor to help my mom out. That’s the place we settled once she got sick. Fuck, even today, it gives me the creeps to remember that was actually a possibility. It was right after a concert we had been together to. He was spending the night, since my roommate had told me not to wait up for him. As if I would wait up for the idiot to brag about his sexual conquests. Yes, of course I had one of those as a roommate. Anyway, Arthur kept quiet, staring at the ceiling for what it seemed to be years. Then he turned to me, still lying on my roommate’s bed and said I was his favorite person and always would be, even if everything was fucked up. I hate when he does that. Should I have kissed him then? Was that the right time?

Hoping gets good boys and girls nowhere.

You know like in the movies, you have the scenery, the lighting, the soundtrack all in perfect sync and it seems like magic for a second? In a dark room, late at night, you find what you need.

Great. Look, but no touching, right?

I wanted to cry, but I swallowed it, because, fuck, that’s what I do best. I wanted to scream, but it’s easier to take a painkiller and call in for the day. On times like these, people are pushed to self-accepting. As if that were the final goal in life. Accept who you are and you’ll be free as a fucking humming bird on a warm summer’s day. It obviously doesn’t work quite poetically as that.

Much before my “flew over the cuckoo’s nest” phase, I had these funny feeling I might be bi. Except that it wasn’t funny at all. I mean, that’s hardly the kind of thing you get to share with your friends and family. I remember when our old neighbor Will came out. We used to be pretty close in middle school, though we only discussed stuff we both strongly disliked. Like Math, football and reggae.

His dad literally kicked him out one afternoon, bawling at the whole neighborhood that his kid fancied taking it up the ass. You never forget that sort of scandal. As if it were yesterday, I remember my mom’s favorite soap opera was on, she had baked a lemon pie, it was May, Nickelback’s sticky tune “How you remind me” was number four on the top charts and I had masturbated earlier that day picturing Emma Bunton in a wonderfully short dress and wedges. Now that I think about it, that was actually very unusual since she never cooked. My mom, I mean, not Emma Bunton. Maybe she was sensing tragedy, and lemon pie makes everything better.

“I can’t believe Will is a queer. He always seemed like such a good boy, always seemed so… normal.”

Let me tell you something about my mother. She’s the kindest person you’ll encounter. I’m positively certain she meant no harm by that statement. I was fifteen back then and I realized that if a great person, with such a big heart like hers would say that, there was nothing to expect from the rest of the world but shit. So I just nodded. I fucking nodded.

We had to move right after that and never spoke of it again.

When Arthur came to the picture a couple of years later, everything got less confusing, yet more troubling. I remember thinking it was nice to have a friend, someone who really got me for a change. I’m starting to sound a little obsessive, aren’t I? I’m not a stalker, I swear. I’m just trying not to fall off the wagon again. And why am I even worried? Judge me all you like, it won’t change a damn thing about me.

Maybe that’s what growing up feels like. You stop giving a shit. Self-indulgence for the win. Or maybe that’s just me.

Again, I wish, and that’s not very mature, is it?

From time to time, I think of Will and I hope he’s happy. Then again I hope he isn’t, so I don’t have to feel like a coward for making the choices I made. Despicable, I know. I’ve never said this would be pretty now, have I? Are you starting to get the picture? That’s about damn time.

Then the universe seems so small.

I just want to feel the brush of Arthur’s lips on mine for a second, so I’ll know for sure this sorrow is justifiable and completely mine to handle.

So something will finally be mine, undoubtedly mine.


	7. Epilogue

It’s fucked up. Simple as that. You know how people say true happiness lies on the journey, not the destination? I’d very much fancy telling them to shove it.

Arthur called me two days ago, actually called me on the phone to talk. To articulate words out loud over the phone. I used to think he did that sort of thing only to annoy me. I’m aware of all the princely features I’ve attributed to him so far, all right? It doesn’t mean he can’t be a royal prat sometimes. The obviously messed up thing is I could make a list of all his flaws and they wouldn’t be compelling enough to let go.

What he needs to do is majorly screw up and hurt me. That’s all I’m asking. Show me the ugliest traits of his personality. Shatter my misconceptions. Finish them up already. Isn’t that a decent definition for the word “crush”? He’s got to make things easier for me just this once.

Have I told you about this one time he really let me down? No? That’s ’cause it never happened!

“Hey, it’s me. Listen, I really need to talk to you in person. Could we maybe meet somewhere today?”

I held my breath. Sounded serious. He never calls. Sounded life changing. Was that my cue? My once-in-a-lifetime chance for freedom? Was today the day he was gonna drop the wake-up-call-bomb and release me from my duties?

“Is everything alright? You’re freaking me out a little here, man.”

“Nobody died, Merlin, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He chuckled, without sounding completely at ease. “I’m sure you can handle it.”

How the hell would he know? The oblivious wanker.

I met him at a café downtown, one of those posh places people go just so they can say they haven’t spent the whole weekend indoors, lurking around their overpriced mobiles. Don’t you just pity those people? I think you should, since I’m one of them and I could use a little sympathy these days. Arthur was sitting on a dark corner when I arrived, silently judging everyone.

I know I said he’s not the judgmental type, and he really isn’t. But if there’s one thing which makes him out of his god damned mind is stolen wi-fi. He finds it disrespectful in a very personal level, god knows why. It might have something to do with someone hacking his computer once and causing him to lose his Bela Lugosi’s scanned vintage photo collection.

“Look at them, Merlin. These people have no shame. No shame, I tell you!”

I rolled my eyes, knowing exactly what he was on about. As far as he was concerned, not ordering anything, just hanging there, using the place for free wi-fi purposes only was downright beyond reasonable limits. Civility issues meant the world to Arthur.

I love him, what can I say? That’s fucking it. I love the idiot. Love, the supreme king of clichés, incompetent screenwriters’ all-time favorite topic, that little thing Freddy Mercury believed in.

That silent form of rage that lasts a thousand years. Will it ever pass?

“They could at least get a cookie while they’re at it, I mean, that’s the very least they could do!”

I sat down and smirked. Don’t make me smile, Arthur. Don’t do it, you jerk. Don’t you dare. I’m right on the edge of freedom here! I’m almost out, man, I can feel it! It’s gonna hurt, it’s gonna be unpleasant. Mentally agonizing, if I’m lucky.

One can keep their hopes up, can’t they?

Then he told me he and Gwen were moving to another state, about 300 miles away, because of a job opportunity at this architecture company. He just spitted out and waited attentively. I choked. Arthur has always been fond of building things. It was a great opportunity. You gotta take those, right? Opportunities, I mean. That’s what people say. The omniscient fuckers, remember them?

I hadn’t even noticed how quiet I had gotten till I raised my eyes and noticed he had been staring at me for what seemed to be a considerable amount of time. Arthur never interrupted my train of thought when I got like this. He knew I’d just start rambling incoherently if he tried to extract anything from me before I left Wonderland or wherever magical place I’d go to when I felt like bursting into tears in public and remembered I was twenty six years old.

“You know… we can still text or Skype like every other day…” he started saying, once he realized I was back from Narnia. “It’s not like we…”

“Do you love me?”

“What?

“Do you love me?”

“What are you talking about? You’re my best friend, of course I love you!”

“Would you love me the way you love Gwen?”

His eyes widened as if he could scarcely believe what I was asking. I could barely believe it myself. What sort of person puts a friend in that kind of position? Yours truly, naturally. Fuck everything. It’s me the one to drop the bomb after all. Call homeland security, I’m about to destroy every ounce of illusion I’ve ever had.

“You know it’s different… things are different…”

I automatically looked outside the window when he said that. Tilted my head just so he wouldn’t get a glimpse of my reaction. No way I’d let him say it to my face. It’s fine, just put it out there, it’ll get to me eventually. His voice sounded gloomy and uncertain. Well, he still said it pretty fast, didn’t he?

Things are different? Ok. That’s as far as I go. I’m throwing the towel. I do love myself on a pretty regular basis to believe I’ll live through this. It’s fine, really. Just dandy.

“Well, congratulations, Arthur. I’m glad you were given this opportunity.”

The hell I was! At that moment, his other option could have been starving in the gutter and I’d still be pissed! It wounds me how he always seems to let me know of his important life decisions only after he’s made them. But mostly, yeah, it wounds me that “things are different”. Damn three words kept echoing through my mind, like bad folk music.

“Merlin…”

“But you still haven’t answered my question, and I find it to be quite simple, even for an absentminded git like yourself. Would you love me that way?”

He kept quiet, with a sorrowful look on his face, searching for something to say, so I got up while he was at it and headed for the door. If that was what freedom felt like, I was already hating every second of it. I’d rather live under the Mixed Feelings Regime, in the far away land of Friends with Benefits for yet years to come.

Even if those benefits were purely one-sided.

Then when I was almost out, I heard him.

“Merlin!” he shouted at the door, attracting a few glares from the wi-fi thieves around us.

I walked back a few steps, the epitome of masochism. The addict in me running wild and free.

“Everything I ever kept from you…” he began when I got close enough to hear his cracked voice, “was in order not to cause you any unnecessary harm, that’s all. I can’t stand to see you hurt. And about your question... I would. You know I would. You know I have. I always will. And it won’t ever feel the same with anyone else.”

Therapy, basically. Maybe a one-year spiritual expedition to Tibet. Maybe a vanilla milkshake.

Mindfuck recovering in process.

You know like people say cheesy stuff like “Better to have loved and lost…”? Well, it doesn’t apply. I haven’t lost shit. Everything is right where it’s supposed to be. Twisted in the new black. I walked out the café, inhaling the sweet motherfucking Spring breeze of the early afternoon. And I was feeling pretty good, considering it would be hell for my allergies for the next few months.

But that’s what antihistamines are for, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. Or is it?

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you have enjoyed it so far! English is not my first language, so I appreciate any comments and/or suggestions as to improve my writing.


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